The Black Train

CHAPTER FIVE I

“You’re more than welcome to join us,” Collier was telling Mrs. Butler at the front desk while he helplessly stole glances at her bosom, hips, and plush pelvis.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Collier but I’ve got more folks checkin’ in tonight. It’s a wonderful little restaurant, though, and I doubt that you’ve got anything close to it in California.” Her bosom jiggled a bit; she quickly rose at the sound of people entering the vestibule. “These must be my Philadelphians.”

Collier stepped aside as another tourist couple stepped perkily to the desk. He found himself looking up at the oil portrait of Harwood Gast…

Stereotypical Southern plantation guy, he thought. The stern face had been painted with detail—the eyes seemed to look specifically at Collier with disdain. What’s so evil about this dude? He was still piqued by Mrs. Butler’s comments. Just an old racist slave-driving stick in the mud.

Several old-wood bookshelves flanked the large portrait, and between two of them Collier noticed a recess, about a yard wide. He figured it used to be an alcove where one might put a statue, but instead there was an old veneered table there, with an odd arrangement of small drawers and letter slots. A tag read: ORIGINAL MAPLE WRITING TABLE—QUEEN ANNE-STYLE—SAVERY AND SONS—1779. When Collier looked harder, he noted an elaborate webwork of minute carvings. Yet on the side of the alcove hung a small oil painting he hadn’t noticed before. Strange…It almost seemed to be hung in that spot so as not to be noticed. MRS. PENELOPE GAST, a tiny plaque read. Gast’s wife…An attractive woman with eyes that seemed wanton looked off the canvas, standing before a landscape of trees. A bonnet, a great billowy dress, frilly knickers; the plunging neckline offered a creamy bosom. So this was Gast’s version of the American Dream? This woman, and this house… Yesterday’s version of a corporate magnate. I guess they’re all assholes when you get right down to it. He wondered if they’d had kids.

Mrs. Butler’s twang reverberated as she jabbered of the house’s historical wonders. The man asked, “Would it be possible to get one of the second-floor rooms facing the mountain? We’d love that view in the morning.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the old woman informed, “all those rooms are taken. But I’ve got a lovely room for ya on the west wing that opens right on the garden. And you can still see the mountain a bit…”

The oddity struck Collier at once. The room right next to his faced the mountain. He remembered Jiff telling him they didn’t rent that one out. I wonder why…

Another display case showed more relics; one caught his eye immediately. HAND-CHISELED STONE MOLD FOR WOOLING SHEARS, and there was a flat piece of stone with a recess shaped like half a pair of big scissors. Beside it lay an actual pair of shears. THESE SHEARS WERE MADE AT THE GAST IRON FORGE LOCATED IN THE BACKYARD—1859.

That’s some real work, he thought. He couldn’t contemplate how hard things were back then. Even something as simple as a pair of shears took many steps to produce. Smelting ore, skimming slag, pouring molten iron into a mold without burning the living shit out of yourself or becoming brain-damaged from poisonous fumes. More handcrafted items from the family forge lay in the case: nails, hinges, door latches. That stuff must’ve been hard as hell to make.

He overheard the Philadelphia woman whisper: “Oh my God! Is that the Prince of Beer over there?”

Shit! Collier had been made again. He acted like he hadn’t heard them and slipped out the vestibule doors.

The sun was turning orange as it lowered, a blaze on the horizon. Collier gazed across the well-landscaped front court, smelling mint, moss, and wildflowers. The quiet beauty almost stunned him.

Jiff bopped down the porch steps a moment later, wearing the same jeans and work boots but now he’d put on a black button-down shirt. Gussied up, Collier thought, redneck-style.

“Ready when you are, Mr. Collier!”

“Okay, Jiff. But if you don’t mind, could you show me that little furnace in the back first?”

“My pleasure, sir. Lotta interesting things ’round here.”

“Yes, there are.” Collier followed him around the side of the main house, where a trail skirted the additional wings. “I guess I’ve lived in L.A. too long, but coming to a place like this really opens your eyes. We take so much for granted these days. Even the displays in the lobby: handmade boots, tools, and even nails that someone hammered out on an anvil, carpet and clothing stitched by hand instead of processed by machinery. It reminds me that this country was built on hard work.”

“Very hard work, sir,” Jiff agreed. “You wanna build a house back then, you had to dig the clay and bake the bricks, cut the clapboards from trees ya chopped down yourself, blow the glass for the windows, you name it. And while you’re doin’ all that hard work, ya gotta eat. So you till the land to grow your food, find a spring or river to water the seeds, and if you want some meat to go with it, you gotta raise the pig yourself, butcher it, and cut more wood to cook it. And while you’re choppin’ that wood you better find the right kind of bark to tan the hide so’s you can make the boots on your feet. But a’course if you’re gonna do that, ya better find some cassiterite to melt down so’s ya can make a tin bucket to do your tannin’ in. That was life back then. Now we just go to the grocery store and The Home Depot.”

Collier chuckled at the parallel. The walk gave him a closer look at the additional four wings of the house. “Why are these wings so differently styled than the main house? It almost—”

“It almost don’t look right.” Jiff got his point. “The wings are all made’a wood while the main house is fancy brick’n stone. It’s ’cos the South was piss-poor for a long time after the war.”

“The War of Northern Aggression—”

“Yes, sir. Harwood Gast had a million in gold when he moved into town, and everyone figured he spent it all on his railroad. He finished the railroad in 1862, ’bout a year after the war started. Then he came home…and you know what he done?”

“What?”

“Killed hisself. Just after that last spike was drove at the very end of the East Tennessee and Georgia Railroad, way past the border in a place used to be called Maxon.”

“Why did he kill himself?”

“Aw, who knows?” The younger man seemed to deflect the question. “But folks figured he bankrupted hisself layin’ all that track, but you know what? Turns out he still had a million in gold in his accounts. Like he never spent a dime.”

“Strange,” Collier said, trying to keep the information sorted. “So it wasn’t bankruptcy that urged him to commit suicide. I wonder what it was then?”

Jiff still didn’t comment. “After the fightin’ was finished, Lincoln’s boys seized all Gast’s gold, but they sold the house. Point I’m trying to make is that the new owners—some’a my ma’s kin—could only afford cheaper building materials to do the add-ons.”

It made sense. Collier knew that the South fared about as well as Germany after World War I; the people were kept destitute for a while—punishment for their attempted secession. But Jiff had still evaded the topic he was more interested in. That’s…curious…

“We live in this wing here. Two’a the others are more guest rooms, and the fourth—you gotta see the fourth, Mr. Collier, since you’re interested in this stuff. It’s loaded full up with more things from the old days.”

“I’d love to see all that.”

“And don’t forget the bath closet—that’s the door just to the right of your room. That’s one way rich folks back then showed how well-off they was—by havin’ a bath closet and toilet on the second floor near the bedroom. Plain folks just had outhouses and washin’ sheds outside.”

I guess I even take THAT for granted, Collier reflected. A pot to piss in.

They passed the second wing—through a window Collier spotted the newest guests checking in, Lottie lugging their bags—then followed a path through the garden. A slight breeze shifted countless hundreds of colorful blossoms.

When they arrived at the small clearing, Collier found the old furnace larger than it had looked from his room. Flat rocks fixed by mortar formed the large conical structure, which sported several vents at various heights.

“This is incredible,” Collier said.

“Yes, sir, it is.” Jiff pointed. “That there’s the charcoal chute, and there, the ore drop. That l’il one there is the outflow, and there a’course, is the airway,” he said, pointing to the pipe that extruded from a bellows the size of a refrigerator. “The smith’d yank this chain, to pump the bellows”—he demonstrated, and they could hear the device whistling air—“and the air’d shoot into the bed. It’d get up to 2,300 degrees in there, turn iron ore or damn near anything else into a red-hot puddle.”

Now Collier noticed other features: a cooling barrel, a tool hanger, a grinding wheel and stand. The anvil, which he’d spotted earlier, had a date engraved: 1856. Collier was finding himself staggered by the nostalgia. These weren’t props; they were genuine relics of a longdead way of life. Real people built this thing, he thought. Some guy, in 1856, MADE that anvil with his own two hands.

“Has anyone used it, I mean, recently?”

Jiff scratched at a mortar seam with a penknife. The material was still hard. “For iron forging? Naw. But there’s no reason why it wouldn’t still work. You melt the ore against a wall of charcoal while pumpin’ the bellows. All we use it for now is cookin’ during holiday weekends. Sometimes we’ll hang a couple of pig quarters inside and smoke ’em for twenty-four hours with hickory. But way back when, they even had to make their own charcoal; they’d pile up twenty, thirty cords of wood, light the middle, then cover it all over with sod. See, when the carbon in the charcoal mixes with the pig iron, it becomes steel. They didn’t even know it back then, but that’s what they were makin’. All by hand.”

Smart guy for a hayseed, Collier thought. “This is pretty specified information. How do you know so much about it?”

“Grew up ’round all this stuff, so I asked. Most folks in these parts all have ancestors going back to even before the war. You learn a lot when you ask the right folks.”

“That you do.” Collier was impressed. Behind the charcoal shed he saw a pile of blocks. He picked one up. “Oh, here’s another mold like the one your mother has displayed. A scissor mold.”

“Shears,” Jiff corrected. “Probably took some poor bastard a full day just to chisel one of those things.”

But Collier saw a veritable pile of them. “That’s an awful lot of molds,” he pointed out. “Two blocks for each single pair of shears? There must be enough there for fifteen pair.”

“Yeah, that is strange. Shears were important tools, a’course, but I don’t know why the smith would make so many molds.”

“Almost like a production line. I’ll bet he made hundreds of pairs with these blocks.” Collier thought about it. “I wonder why?”

“Ya got me, Mr. Collier. But the funny thing is there was only one single pair of shears ever found on the property—the one in the display case.”

It was an unimportant question but one that needled him. What the hell did they need all those shears for?

“Nice, uh, nice car,” Jiff remarked when he got into the Bug. “What, it’s foreign?”

Collier pulled out of the front court, chuckling. “I got stuck with it at the rental office at the airport. I know it looks ridiculous. It’s a woman’s car.”

Jiff raised a brow.

The horizon darkened as they drove down the hill, the air getting cooler. Collier saw the sign again—PENELOPE STREET—and remembered something. “Would this road be named after Penelope Gast?”

“Yes, sir. You must’a seen the portrait at the house. She was Harwood’s freaky wife.”

“Why do you say ‘freaky’?”

Jiff sighed as much to himself as he could. “Just more bad talk. See, Mr. Collier, I love this town and got respect for it. I hate to spread garbage talk.”

“Come on, Jiff. All towns have their folklore and their notorious figures—big deal. I have the impression there’s quite a bit about Harwood Gast that’s actually very interesting. To you, it’s hundred-and-fifty-year-old gossip but to me, it’s fascinating. Let me guess. She killed herself right along with Gast, and now their ghosts prowl the house at night.”

“Naw, naw. It’s just that she weren’t the finest of ladies, if ya know what I mean. She got around.”

“Promiscuous wives are part of every town, Jiff.”

“Yeah, sure, but, see, she weren’t no good at all if ya believe the stories. There’s lots of ’em, and they’re all bad. Makes me feel like I’m bad-mouthin’ my home. We’ve always tried to tone down that kind’a stuff. It could give the town a bad name, hurt my ma’s business.”

Collier grinned, egging him on. “Come on, Jiff. Don’t jive me.”

Jiff shook his head. “All right. Penelope Gast didn’t kill herself, it was her husband that murdered her.”

“Why? Did he go crazy?”

“No, sir, he killed her ’cos he found out she’d been pregnant with some other fella’s kid. What’cha gotta understand is that once the railroad construction started to get close to the Georgia border, Gast would be away from home for weeks at a time. And for months, towards the end.”

“The more track they laid, the farther it took him from his house,” Collier assumed.

“’Zactly. To get back home to visit, he’d have to take one of his own supply trains that kept feeding track and ties. But there weren’t a whole lotta them. He’d have to wait.”

“And while he was away—”

Jiff nodded, morose. “She’d take up with other fellas and got herself pregnant that way three times. She also got herself an abortion three times. They had abortions back then, ya know. I suspect Gast knew all along but waited till the railroad was finished before her killed her.”

“He wanted to see his project completed, in other words.”

“The railroad was very important to him. He told people that he believed by 1863, the Confederate army would have secured Washington, D.C., and his railroad would be crucial in moving supplies father north.”

What a strange way to phrase it, Collier thought. “When you say he ‘told’ people he believed that…do you mean it was just a sham, that there was some other reason he went to the monumental expense and effort of building the railroad?”

“Oh, turn here, Mr. Collier.” Jiff leaned forward, pointing. “Cusher’s is right there on the corner. Yes, sir, you’re gonna love the beer they got.”

“Yes, but do you think Gast might’ve—”

“Folks just rave about the beer, yes sir. And they got several kinds. Beer expert such as yourself’ll really get into it.”

Collier smiled. He’s ducking the topic again. That’s really bizarre. He thought it best to drop it for now, but in all, he couldn’t have been more intrigued.

With the sun dipping behind the mountain now, the light was being sapped. Streetlights with carriage lamp tops were coming on; shop windows glowed bright. Now that they were downtown, Collier thought of a dollhouse community: spotless streets, storefronts and building walls shiny in new paint, picture-perfect flower displays. Even the people were immaculate, mostly married couples strolling the quaint streets, window shopping. No riffraff, Collier saw with some relief. Typically he’d see psychotic bums sullying Rodeo Drive and Crips and Bloods blemishing Redondo.

“And there it is.”

Collier saw the cursive sign—CUSHER’S—topping a slatshingled awning on the corner. CIVIL WAR CUISINE AND HANDCRAFTED BEER. The building itself stood three stories, ideal for a brewery, which processed beer from top floors to the bottom, exploiting gravity. Large windows showed a full dining room.

“Wow, not what I thought,” Collier admitted. “I pictured a small place, kind of a dive.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Jiff spoke up. “It’s fancy inside, and, well, big-city prices, if you wanna know the truth.”

“Makes sense, for tourists.”

More passersby shot funky looks at the car when he parked. Collier just shook his head. As night beckoned, the little town seemed to bloom in crisp yellow light and smiling strollers.

He grinned the instant he got out of the car. You can tell there’s a brewery here…He took in the familiar aroma: the mash of barley malt being heated.

Inside, waiters wore the Confederate equivalent to military dress blues; waitresses were adorned in white bonnets, billowy skirts, and frilled, low-cut white tops. A line formed at the hostess stand, and Jiff muttered, “We ain’t waitin’ for a table, not when I tell ’em we got a TV celebrity here.”

Collier grabbed his arm, afret—“No, please, Jiff. I’d rather sit up at the bar.”

“Cool.”

Jesus, Collier thought. Brick, brass, and dark veneered wood surrounded them, while framed Civil War regalia hung on the walls. A tourist trap, yes, but Collier liked it for its divergence from L.A. big-time, and its effort. “Great bar,” he enthused of the long mahogany top and traditional brass rail. Buried in the bar top’s crystal clear resin were bullets, buttons, and coins from the era. Another familiar—and pleasing—sight greeted him at once. Behind the bar, service tuns—beer’s final stage before consumption—shined with edges of gold light, cask-shaped brass vessels the size of compact cars. A chalkboard posted the specialties: GENERAL LEE RUBIN, STONEWALL JACKSON MAIBOCK, PICKETT’S PILS, and CUSHER’S CIVIL WAR LAGER. Collier started a tab with his credit card and ordered two lagers from a barmaid who would’ve been nondescript save for a bosom like the St. Pauli Girl.

“I guess them big things there are where they brew the beer.” Jiff gestured the brass vessels.

“They’re called service tuns,” Collier explained. “The beer’s actually brewed in bigger tuns upstairs called brewing vessels, but it all starts in the mash tun. There are about ten steps to making beer, and beers like these—lagers—take at least two months to ferment.”

Jiff clearly couldn’t have cared less; he was just looking for familiar faces.

He seemed to be searching the crowd for someone, to the point that Collier began to look around himself, hoping not to be missing something. He must be eyeballing girls… A moment later, an attractive diner in her twenties sailed by: tight stonewashed jeans and a tube top that satcheled prominent breasts. What a hottie… He got a crook in his neck watching her wend between tables. But then he saw that Jiff hadn’t so much as cast her a glance.

Before Collier could focus his newfound sexism on other diners, two pilsner glasses were placed before them. Collier immediately expected a Samuel Adams rip-off when he noted the sharp amber color, but when he raised the glass and sniffed…

“Oh, man. Great nose,” he said.

Jiff looked perplexed. “Who? The barmaid?”

Collier sighed. “No, Jiff. That’s how beer writers describe a beer’s aroma. A rich but tight aroma like this means the brewer uses good water without a lot of minerals. It’s also a sign of extensive filtering and refusal to cut corners with pasteurization.”

“Uh-huh.”

Collier reexamined the beer’s color, as if the glass were a scryer’s ball, then, Here goes, and he took the first sip, holding it in his mouth.

The emergence of the grain was immediate. The astringency of the hops—six-row, he was sure—rounded off after the initial sensation that experts called mouthfeel. After the first swallow, Collier’s palate delighted in the complex, if not perfect, finish. “This is outstanding,” he said.

Jiff had chugged half of his already. “Yeah, good stuff.”

Good stuff. This guy wouldn’t know the difference between Schlitz and Schutzenberger Jubilator. But what did he expect? Two sips later, the beer continued to retain all of its character. “Oh, how about ordering us something to eat, Jiff. Have whatever you like; I’ll just take a burger.” But food couldn’t have interested him less right now. Further sips drew the lace down low; then he let the last inch sit for a few minutes to see what characteristics appeared or vanished as the lager’s open temperature rose.

“So you like it, huh?”

“Indeed, I do, Jiff.” Collier sat calm and sedate, the awe of any beer snob who’d come across a surprise. “This might be one of the best American lagers I’ve ever tasted.”

“Didn’t you say somethin’ earlier ’bout how you’d heard of Cusher’s from someone else?”

“Actually, yes. A few friends in the field had tried it—but they couldn’t remember the name of the town. So I did some Web searches to try to pin the place down. In fact—” Collier extracted a folded printout. “Maybe you could help me with something.”

“Help ya anyway I can, Mr. Collier. Say, can we order two more?”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Collier opened the sheet of paper. “Like I said, I was Web-searching—”

Jiff’s eyed scrunched up. “Web—You mean, like, spiderwebs? Thought you were beer searching.”

How could Collier not appreciate that? “No, Jiff. The World Wide Web—”

“Oh, that ‘puter stuff, information highway’n all,” Jiff assented.

“Yes.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The sheet he’d printed out off the “dining out” section of an obscure Southern-tourist Web site. The passage he’d flagged read:

…some of the most extensive collections of authentic Civil War regalia in the South, not to mention Cusher’s, the only restaurant in the South that features a menu of genuine Civil War cuisine and beers brewed from actual recipes dating back to 1860.

The address was found at the bottom along with the name of the article’s author: J.G. SUTE, AUTHOR OF FIVE BOOKS AND THE AREA’S HISTORICAL SCHOLAR.

“See, right here.” Collier pointed to the bottom. “This man, J.G. Sute. It says he’s a local scholar. Have you ever heard of him?”

For whatever reason, Jiff stalled. Then he blinked and answered, “Oh, sure, ole J.G. we call him. He’s a townie, all right.”

“Sounds like he’s a successful author.”

Another weird stall. “Oh, sure, Mr. Collier. He’s written some books.”

“About local breweries, by chance?”

Jiff still seemed off guard but was trying not to show it. “No, sir, not that I know of. He writes history books, mainly books about this town.”

“Books about Gast?”

“Yeah, sure, and how the town worked into the war’n all. And also local history and such.”

Damn. Collier was hoping for an area culinary writer who might point him in the right direction of any similar breweries. “I’d really like to talk to him but he’s not in the phone book. Where might I find him?”

What’s wrong with this guy now? Collier wondered after asking the question. Was it his imagination, or was Jiff uneasy about this man Sute?

“Well, he usually eats here every day for lunch, sometimes hangs out at the bar down the corner at night.” Jiff wiped his brow with a napkin. “Uh, and he spends a lot of time at the bookstore durin’ the day, hawkin’ his books. The owner don’t mind ’cos he’s a talkative kind’a guy and he gets tourists to buy stuff.”

Collier had to ask. “Jiff, you really seem bothered that I asked about this guy.”

The younger man sighed, clearly ill at ease. “Aw, no, it’s just—”

“He’s a local gossip? You don’t want him bad-mouthing the town?”

“No, no—”

“Then you don’t want to bad-mouth him? This guy’s like—what? The local jackass? Some old cracker-barrel kind of guy, mostly full of crap? The town dick?”

At least Jiff cracked a smile now. “He’s a nice enough guy, but yeah, pretty much everything you just said. Ain’t that old—late fifties, early sixties, I think. Drives around in his brand-new Caddy talkin’ his malarkey. Nice set of wheels, though. one’a them fancy Caddy SUVs. Enchilada it’s called.”

Enchil—oh, the rube means Escalade. “So he is successful from his books. A brand-new one of those will set you back fifty grand minimum.”

Jiff shrugged and kind of nodded.

“Do you know him well? Are you friends?”

Jiff sprang a gaze at Collier that was nearly one of fright. “Aw, no, er, I mean, I know him, sure, but—” He gulped. “But only ’cos I do odd jobs for him, handymantype stuff. I do a lot’a work on the side for folks, includin’ him. Trimmin’ hedges, fixin’ doors’n windows and such.”

But it seemed like an excuse. Jiff probably owes the guy money or something, doesn’t want me talking to him and winding up with the scoop. Again, Collier dropped the mysteriously sensitive issue after saying, “I’ll try to find him at the bookstore, like you said. I just want to ask about local beers.”

Next, Collier winced when the barmaid’s low-cut bosom descended to serve them their burgers. Do I have to lust after EVERY GIRL WHO WALKS BY? he scorned himself. He tried to refocus.

The burger was fine, but he couldn’t stop enthusing over the beer. By the time he finished his second glass of lager, Jiff looked sheepish at him. “Is it all right if—”

“Jiff, order as many as you want. I told you, tonight’s my treat.”

“Thanks, Mr. Collier.”

Collier tried to cheer him out of his mope. “And I really appreciate you bringing me here.” Collier pointed to his glass. “I’m sure that this is the beer I need to finish my book and make my deadline…”

Eventually, Jiff did cheer up, as drunkenness impinged. Collier’s rule was generally to never drink more than three beers in a day, so that he could write down his impressions with a clear head. However, when his third glass was done—Oh, to hell with it. I’m on vacation—he ordered another.

“Careful there, Mr. Collier,” Jiff warned. “This brew’s got a kick that sneaks up on ya.”

You’re telling ME? “Five percent alcohol, I’ll bet.”

“Five point three,” a crisp but feminine voice cut in. It wasn’t the barmaid but instead a woman Collier thought must be a cook, for she wore a plain full-length apron.

“Specific gravity or volume?” Collier asked pedantically.

“Volume,” she replied.

“Wow, that is strong. But it doesn’t taste that strong.”

“That’s because of the six-row Bohemian hops, the same hops that were brought here by Czech immigrants in the early 1840s.”

The specific remarks reached through Collier’s rising buzz. She knows her beer. And then he took a closer look. Hair black as India ink hung just a bit past her shoulders. She seemed small-framed but something in her eyes showed him a large-framed sense of confidence. Collier’s sexism ranged his eyes over her bosom but the baggy apron wouldn’t hint at her size. An ornate silver cross sparkled just below the hollow of her throat.

When he tried to say something, though, he caught her staring at him.

“I don’t believe it. Justin Collier is in my bar.”

“Dang straight!” Jiff announced a bit too loudly. “A bonner-fide TV star he is!”

Collier winced.

“Hey, Jiff,” the woman leaned to whisper. “Mr. Collier probably doesn’t want a lot of attention.”

“No, actually I don’t,” Collier said, relieved.

“Oh, sure, sure.” Jiff got it. “Say, how about a couple more?”

The woman poured two more glasses and set them down. Then she extended a small but somewhat roughened hand. Probably from dishwashing, Collier presumed.

“I’m Dominique Cusher, Mr. Collier,” she introduced. “It’s a real pleasure to have you here. If you want to know the truth, your show is about the only thing I watch on television these days. I really love it.”

“Thanks,” Collier said. “Pleased to meet you.”

She held up a finger. “But, I remember a couple episodes ago, you were touting that new Rauchbier from Oregon. Whew! You actually like that codswallop? They cut their barley with corn, and I could swear I tasted Liquid Smoke in it.”

Collier laughed at the surprising, bold remark. He didn’t really care for the product, either, but the question nagged, What the hell is a dishwasher doing drinking an obscure smoked beer? “Well, sometimes business has its demands. Every now and then I have to give a nod to a beer that’s not all that great.”

Now she smiled. “Oh, I understand. Advertisers.”

“Bingo.”

“I have to do the same thing, too. It kills me to post a Bud happy hour…but if we run the special we get a discount. Don’t know how people can drink it.”

“But more people drink it than anything else,” Collier noted. “Business is business. One has to accommodate the market. But let me just say that this house lager is excellent. Could you please pass my compliments on to the brewer?”

“You just did,” she said.

Collier was stunned. “You—”

“That’s right, Mr. Collier,” she said with no arrogance. “I’ve got a master brewer degree from the Kulmbach School, and I took supplemental courses at Budvar in Budejovice and Tucher in Nuremberg.” She pointed between two of the service tuns. There hung the certificates in plain view.

“That’s incredible,” he said. In fifteen years of beer writing, he’d never met any American to graduate from Kulmbach, and perhaps only two or three women with master brewer certificates from anywhere. Suddenly, to Collier, she was the celebrity. At once, he felt invigorated. This fiery little woman with black hair and rough hands is the one responsible for what has to be one of the finest lagers in America…Dominique Cusher.

Jiff seemed content to be out of the conversation as he swigged more beer and shoveled in the rest of his burger. Dominique leaned over on her elbows, smiling. “I guess you’re on vacation, right? I can’t be arrogant enough to think you came all this way to try my Civil War Lager.”

“Actually, I did. A couple of fellow beer snobs told me about it.” He took another sip and found no trace of monotony. “It really is fantastic.”

“Mr. Collier here’s finishin’ up a book,” Jiff barged in.

Collier nodded. “I need one more entry for my Great American Lagers project. I don’t want to jump the gun, now, but I’m pretty sure this is going to be it.”

“That would be a true honor.” She tried to contain the thrill. But her eyes sparkled. “No palate fatigue yet, huh?”

“None,” Collier admitted. “I’m not finding any deficits. Let me buy you one. It’s known as good luck—”

“To buy the brewer a glass of their own beer,” she finished. “Goes all the way back to the Reinheitsgebot Purity Law.” Dominique poured herself one, then clinked glasses with Collier and Jiff (though Jiff’s slopped a bit out of his glass).

“Prost,” she and Collier said at the same time. “Who’s he?” Jiff said.

“It’s German for ‘cheers,’ Jiff,” she informed.

“Aw, yeah, that’s right…”

Collier smiled at her. “I’d try some of your other selections, too, but I should wait. I don’t want anything to interfere with my initial impressions of the lager. Is there anything unique about the recipe that you could tell me?”

“It’s a family tweak,” she said. She seemed to nurse her glass in exact increments. “A variation of Saaz hops and some temperature jinks in the worting process. But please don’t tell anyone that. My ancestors would crawl out of their graves to come after me.”

“So you’re a family of brewers?”

“Yep. This tavern’s been here in various incarnations since the beginning of the 1800s, and the Cushers managed to hang on to it all that time, even through the war. When federal troops captured the town in 1864, they burned every single building downtown except this tavern. When the Yankees tried the beer, they didn’t dare put a torch to the place.”

“Good sense.”

“The only other structure they didn’t burn was the Gast House, now Mrs. Butler’s bed-and-breakfast.”

“I wonder why they didn’t burn that, too,” Collier questioned. “They were pretty torch-happy once they started to win.”

“Jiff can tell you that,” she said.

Again, that pained look on Jiff’s face. “Aw, come on, Dominique. I been tryin’ hard not to let any of that creepy B.S. get ta Mr. Collier.”

“I knew it,” Collier said. “Ghost stories. Haunted folklore.”

“The way it goes,” the woman began, “is that when the Union commander sent a team of men up to the Gast House, he had to wind up putting them in the stockade.”

“The stockade? What on earth for?”

“Because they refused to carry out their orders.”

“They refused to burn the house, you mean?”

Dominique nodded with a mischievous grin. “They said they were too afraid to go inside, said there was an ungodly presence.”

Jiff frowned, as expected, but Collier wasn’t impressed. “That’s all?”

“No. Then another squad of men were sent up to the house, and…” Her eyes shined at Jiff. “Jiff, tell Mr. Collier what happened.”

“Shee-it,” Jiff said under his breath. “The second squad never came back, so’s the Yankee commander went up there hisself and saw that the whole squad hanged thereselfs.”

“From the same tree that Harwood Gast had hanged himself a year and a half previous. The tree’s still there, too, right Jiff? That giant oak next to the fountain.”

“Yeah, but it all ain’t nothin’ but a bushel basket full’a horse flop, Mr. Collier.”

Collier chuckled. “I’ve got to tell you, Jiff, it’s a fascinating story, but…I don’t believe any of it. So you can relax.”

“Thank God…”

“Regional folklore has always interested me, but at the end of the day,” Collier said, and paused for effect. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“But Jiff’s right,” Dominique added. “There are a lot of ghost stories around here, typical of any Civil War town. Funny thing is, our stories are a bit harder-edged than most.”

“Harder-edged?” Collier asked.

Jiff butted in again. “So, wow, that’s really interestin’, that this beer’s been around since the war. I didn’t even know they had beer way back then.”

Collier knew Jiff was desperate to change the subject. But why would silly ghost stories bother him so much? Another Southern cliché? Were people from the South more superstitious than anyone else? Collier doubted it. But the pedant in him couldn’t resist the deflecting remark. “Actually, Jiff, beer’s been around for at least eight thousand years, and in earlier civilizations, it was the main carbohydrate staple. Before man figured out that they could turn grain into bread, they were turning it into beer.”

Dominique accentuated, “Early nomads discovered that they could boil ground-up grain, like barley, wheat, and millet, and eat it as a porridge. But when they accidentally let it sit around, or when rain would saturate their grain stores, it would ferment and become ale. It had the same nutritional value as bread but it wouldn’t go bad, like bread does, because of the alcohol content. And let’s not forget the additional fact. You don’t get a buzz from bread…”

Collier and Dominique spent the next half hour bantering more about beer. When he offered to buy her another, she declined with a comment that struck Collier as odd: “No, thanks. I never drink more than one beer a day.”

Collier found this astonishing. “But you’re a brewer, for God’s sake.”

“Well, that’s sort of the point.” She said it all very non-chalantly. “I’m a Christian. I don’t let myself get drunk. You know, the body’s a temple of the Lord, and all that.”

Collier’s eyes shot back to the cross around her neck. What an odd thing to say…He struggled for a response that wasn’t stilted. “Well, Jesus drank wine, right?”

White teeth gleamed in her grin. “Yeah, but he didn’t get shit-faced and swing from chandeliers.”

Collier had to laugh.

“And that’s the kind of stuff that happens when I drink too much,” she went on, “so…one’s my limit. I figure the least I can do is not insult God by getting pissy drunk.”

Collier was intrigued by the strangeness of it all. The mild profanity mixed with a matter-of-fact religious sentiment. “My own personal rule is no more than three a day; it’s no fun to write about beer when you’re hungover.” Then he looked at his glass and realized that he’d just finished his fourth. “But I’m being a hypocrite today. One more please. And another for Jiff.”

“Thanks much, Mr. Collier,” Jiff said, slurring “much” as “mlush” and “Mr.” as “Mlister.”

When Dominique returned with two more, Collier felt the need to continue. “But I’ve never thought of having a few beers as much of a sin. At least I hope it’s not.”

“Inebriation leads to temptation,” she said. She was unconsciously fingering her cross now.

“I’ve definitely been guilty of that,” Collier admitted.

“Sure, and we all have. Making an effort to stay sober is a form of repentance”—she frowned as if irritated with herself—“but I’m not trying to Holy Roll you. It’s just my personal view. Spiritual beliefs are individual. When you’re in the bar business as long as I’ve been, you learn fast—”

“Never talk about religion in a bar.” Collier knew.

“You got that right. Anyway, I don’t want you to think I’m a Holy Roller. Telling other people how to live is the worst hypocrisy. I think it’s best to show your faith by example, not chatter and finger-pointing. If you’re a Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, whatever. Live it, don’t talk it is what I try to do.”

This girl is cool, Collier realized. He also realized he was half drunk. Don’t make a dick of yourself! “You weren’t telling me how to live, you were just explaining why you only drink one beer a day. Beer snobbery is a sophisticated science. If you drink too many, you might as well be guzzling domestic draft—”

“Because no one can appreciate the nuances of fine beer, not with a load on.”

God, I really dig her, Collier acknowledged to himself. Even the way she talked—half colloquial, half philosophical—seemed sexy. She looked at her watch, then excused herself. “I have to go upstairs and check the wort. But please don’t leave yet.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. I might even have to have a sixth glass of your lager. See, my rules go out the window pretty fast,” he joked, “but I can only blame you.”

“Me?”

“For being the purveyor of one of the very best lagers in America.”

She smiled at the overt compliment, then slipped away through a door behind the bar.

Jiff leaned over, concerned. “Shee-it, Mr. Collier. She say she had warts? Man, you don’t want none’a that.”

Collier was quickly learning to frown and smile in amusement simultaneously. “Not warts, Jiff. Wort. Wort is beer before the yeast and hops have been added. After the solution ferments and is filtered of its excess proteins, it officially becomes beer.”

“Oh, yeah, well, now that I thunk of it, I’m pretty sure I knew that, and, yes, it’s a damn good thing she ain’t got warts. Not that I ever had ’em—you know, the sexual kind—” Jiff pronounced it “sax-shool.” “And I say it’s plain as barn paint she got a serious torch fer you.”

Collier’s unconfident eyes looked at him. “You…really think so, Jiff?”

Jiff’s head lolled back with a big shucksy grin. “Shee-it, Mr. Collier. Her face was plumb all lit up like a pinball machine when you and her was talkin’ all that beer talk.” Then Jiff wheezed a chuckle, and elbowed Collier. “And—aw, shee-it—I can tell ya someone else who’s got a fierce likin’ for ya, but don’t ya dare say I said so—”

“Lottie,” Collier supposed.

“Aw, yeah, sure, but I ain’t talkin’ ’bout that silly string bean. I mean my ma.”

Collier was duped. This guy’s telling me that his MOTHER is attracted to me? “Uh, really?” he said.

“And I gots to tell ya, there’s dudes twenty years younger asking my ma out all the dang time. Yeah, I know, she’s a bit raggy in the face but that’s some body on her, ain’t it?” And then another elbow jabbed Collier in the side.

Collier couldn’t imagine an appropriate response, so he just said, “Your mother’s very nice indeed, Jiff, and very attractive for her age.”

“Yeah, she is, and ya wanna know how I know she likes ya? Huh?”

“Uuuuuuum…sure.”

“It weren’t that she told me, now, but it’s ’cos whenever a single fella checks in that she’s got a twinkle for, she gives him room three. Your room.”

Collier’s brain chugged through preinebriation. What the hell? What could my room have to do with…“Oh, you mean because it’s better than the other rooms?”

“Naw, naw.” Jiff waved his hand. He elbowed Collier one more time and whispered, “It’s ’cos of the view. Bet she even told ya that, huh? That room three’s got the best view?”

“Actually, she did but—” The ridiculous conversation was growing more ridiculous. I guess the view from my balcony is pretty good but it’s nothing really special. “The view of the mountain? The garden?”

“Naw, naw,” Jiff wheezed in his own amusement. He slapped his knees. “I’m gonna leave ya in suspense, Mr. Collier.” A glance to the bar clock. “I best git my tail back to the house ’cos I still got some work to do.”

“Oh, well, let me drive you back.”

Another dismissive wave of hand. “Naw, naw, wouldn’t think of it. You stay here’n jaw with Dominique. It ain’t but a ten-minute walk and tell ya the truth I could use some fresh air ’cos I am more hammered than a hunnert-year-old fence post.” Jiff wobbled when he pushed his stool out. “But thanks again for treatin’ me, Mr. Collier. You really are a swell guy”—he winked—“and one I’d be proud to see datin’ my ma.”

I don’t believe it. This guy’s trying to set me up with his MOTHER. “Uh, yeah, Jiff, thanks for coming out.” He awkwardly shook Jiff’s hand and bid him a good night.

Yep. Strange damn day—the bar clock showed him it was only nine P.M.—and it’s not even over yet.

He turned on his stool just to people-watch but noticed Jiff walking the wrong way up the street. The inn’s in the opposite direction…But what did it matter? Probably bored shitless listening to Dominique and me talk beer facts. Still…

Collier got up and walked to the front window; Jiff took uneven strides to the corner and entered a door under a neon sign. Another bar, Collier realized. The one Jiff had mentioned earlier, where this man J.G. Sute frequented? But again Collier couldn’t imagine why he cared. Jiff was a hardworking and no doubt hard-drinking Southern rube; not the kind of guy to spend much time in a tourist spot like Cusher’s. Collier squinted through the glass. He thought he could barely make out the neon: THE RAILROAD SPIKE.

Dumbest name I ever heard for a bar…He turned back for his bar stool, hoping Dominique would return. I can’t wait to talk to her some more…In Collier’s business, he met few women he could relate to professionally. And she’s cute as hell…But then he felt as though fate had just hit him in the face with a pie when he got back to his seat and found Lottie sitting in the stool Jiff had just vacated.

I thought she had to do laundry!

He put on his best face. “Hi, Lottie.”

She gave him a big smile and waved.

“Finished your work early, I see.”

She wagged her head up and down. She’d pinned her hair back and changed into a shocking tight evening dress that was diaphanous black. Jesus, Collier thought. She looks like a slot queen on a casino boat. Redneck housemaids needn’t dress like this, but there was Collier again, supporting the stereotype. Why shouldn’t the poor girl go out to a bar? He struggled not to shake his head when he noted her shoes: black high heels several sizes too large. Collier thought of an adolescent trying on her mother’s shoes, to feel grown up.

But despite her petite frame, the rest of her was grown up, and the howlingly inappropriate dress spotlighted her body. Immediately, he noticed an absence of pantie lines…

A lot of dichotomies here, Collier pondered: Mrs. Butler, the equivalent of Raquel Welch’s physique circa 1980 topped by an old man’s head with a wig; Dominique, the beautiful European-trained brewmaster who only drinks one beer a day because she’s a Christian; and now Lottie, a racehorse bod who couldn’t talk and had a face that…wasn’t the prettiest. But after all the quirks that had already befallen Collier today, what else could he expect?

Lottie crossed her legs in the tight gown, a foot rocking. Collier gritted his teeth after one glance at the athletic legs, and a spark came to his groin when he imagined them entwined about his back. Oh, man…Next, his eyes flicked to her top and noticed the pert, braless breasts free behind the shiny black fabric, nipples erect. Then a glance to her face…

Absurd, excited, half-crazy eyes and a warped grin.

“Uh, would you like to something to eat?”

Grinning, she shook her head no.

“How about a beer?”

She wagged her head yes.

Collier ordered her a lager from the first barmaid. He felt obliged to engage in conversation with Lottie but of course he couldn’t do that, could he?

Please, Dominique. Finish checking the wort and get back here.

“Oh, you just missed Jiff,” he thought to mention.

She nodded and slugged a quarter of the beer in one gulp. The glass looked huge in her little hand.

“Looks like he went down the street to another bar.”

She put her hand to her mouth as if laughing. Her other hand slapped her bare knee.

“I…don’t get it.” He thought back. “Oh, do you know this local historian? J.G. Sute?”

Now she belly-laughed—silently, of course—but this time slapped Collier’s knee.

“I still don’t get it. What, is Mr. Sute a funny man?”

Another silent belly-howl, and her hand slid halfway up his thigh and squeezed.

The pig in Collier didn’t really mind her hand there, but…Not here! Dominique would be back, and he didn’t want her to witness this weirdo spectacle. Just as he contemplated a way to remove it, she slipped it higher, her thumb edging his crotch—

That’s it!

He plucked the hand off and put in her lap. But she was still silently laughing.

“Come on, Lottie. What’s so funny about this guy Sute? He’s, like, the town fool?”

Lottie slugged more beer while roving her hand in a circle.

“You’ll tell me later?”

More rapid nods.

Collier frowned. He knew it was his own flaw, though—his intent curiosity. Why can’t I forget about all this bullshit and just finish my book? That’s what I’m here for, not gossip.

Nor was he here to revel in all this lust. He tried to glance around inadvertently, but anytime his eyes fell on an attractive woman, his crotch tingled. It got to the point that he forced himself not to look anywhere. He pretended to peruse the cased uniforms on display but even this he couldn’t do without catching a glimpse of someone. Eventually he pointed to a case of Confederate double-breasted frock coats. “Lots of uniforms here,” he said, if only to not sit in silence.

Lottie tapped him on the shoulder, looked right at him, and mouthed I love you!

Somebody please shoot me, Collier thought. He struggled for anything to deflect his unease. “So, uh, are you, uh, sure you don’t want something to eat?”

You! she mouthed and grinned.

He pretended not to understand. I’m dying here. His next errant glance fell on her foot in the too-big shoe, which she was still anxiously rocking.

Even her ankle was attractive. Even the vein up the top of her foot seemed erotic.

I need help! I need a counselor!

Relief emptied on him when Dominique reappeared behind the bar. She’d removed her brewer’s apron, sporting full B-cups and a trim, curvy figure with wide hips and a flat stomach. The plain attire—jeans and a white cardigan—only augmented her unique, radiant cuteness. She seemed to repress a smile when she saw who was sitting next to Collier. “Hi, there, Lottie.”

Lottie waved energetically, and gulped her beer.

“How’s the wort?” Collier asked.

“Yeasting nicely. It’s for the next batch of Maibock.”

“I’ll have to try that after I’ve notated the lager well enough.” He watched her washing barley dust off her hands in the triple sinks behind the bar. She’s just…absolutely…adorable…

Lottie’s hand opened on his thigh and pressed down. Collier almost flinched until he saw that she was just pushing off his leg to get off her stool. She’s faced! “Here, let me help you.” He stood and got her to her feet. She grinned up cockeyed at him; the top of her head came to his nipple. She mouthed something and made hand gestures, then turned and clopped away in the big shoes.

“I guess she wants to leave now.”

“I think she just wants to go to the bathroom,” Dominique said.

Collier watched the tight buttocks clench with each drunken step. “My God, I hope she doesn’t fall,” he muttered. “Maybe I should help her.”

“Probably not the best idea,” Dominique replied. Now she was polishing some slim altbier glasses. “She’d pull you into the bathroom with her. She’s a card, all right, but I guess you’re realizing that.”

“You have no idea.” He retook his stool and sighed.

“The poor girl’s so messed up. And you shouldn’t have given her a beer; she can’t even hold one.”

Collier saw that Lottie’s big pint glass stood empty.

“She’ll be a handful getting back to Mrs. Butler’s place, just so you know in advance.”

He nodded grimly. “I’ll get her out of here. Hopefully she won’t pass out in the ladies’ room.”

Dominique laughed. “That’s happened a few times. She’s actually a very nice girl and handles her problems well…except when she drinks. You’ll see.”

Collier caught the attractive brewer grinning. Oh, boy. With no apron now to cover her upper chest, Collier’s eyes were rioting to stare. Don’t stare! He almost bit down on his lower lip. And don’t drink any more. You’re drunk! The need to make a good impression overwhelmed him, but now he knew that if he even talked too much, he might slur his words.

“Care for one more?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had a few too many already,” he admitted. “If I had one more, I’d make an idiot of myself in front of you. I wish I had your moderation.”

“You should’ve seen me in my younger days.” Another interesting remark. I’ll bet she was an animal. As for the “younger days” comment—How old can she be? She can’t be much more than thirty. When she polished the next glass, he noticed that all of her fingers lacked rings.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

“I’d really like to talk to you some more,” Collier braved, “but I’ve got to get back to the hotel. Do you work tomorrow?”

“All day till seven. And I’d really like to talk to you some more, too, Mr. Collier.”

“Oh, no, call me Justin.” She gets off tomorrow at seven. Ask her out, you pussy! that other voice challenged. But even in his heavyweight-lager buzz, he knew that would be the wrong move.

“Here’s your check, Justin.” She had his bill in her hand.

Collier fumbled for his credit card, then exclaimed, “No!”

She ripped it up. “But this one’s on the house.”

“Dominique, please, that’s not necessary.” Collier got the same treatment in a lot of pubs, mostly from owners wanting mention on his show.

“And, don’t worry, I’m not trying to bribe you for a good review. It’s just nice to have you here.”

“Well, thanks very much. But I’m pretty sure that I want to put your lager in my book, if you don’t mind signing a release form.”

“Oh, of course I don’t mind, but wait until you get your secondary impression first.”

What an overtly ethical thing to say. She smiled at him again—a reserved yet confident expression. The cross at her bosom shined like her teeth. “Actually, it was a bribe for something.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A picture, for our wall.” She pointed to several autographed snapshots: some sports figures, a horror author he’d never heard of, a soap opera star, and, yes, Bill Clinton.

“I’d be happy to pose for a picture, just not tonight, please. Tomorrow, when I’m sober.”

“You got a deal, Mr.—Justin.” Dominique glanced aside. “Here comes your charge.”

Lottie limped back between some tables, the perennial nut-job grin on her face. She’d lost one of the overlarge high heels. What a nightmare, Collier thought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

Collier rushed to Lottie and turned her toward the door. “This way, Lottie.”

She objected, pointing behind.

“No, no more beer for you. Jesus, Lottie, your mother’s going to think I got you drunk.” He shouldered her out the door, an arm braced about her waist. She clipclopped along on one foot bare and one shoed. She appeared to be giggling in silence. Crossing the street was so cumbersome, Collier stopped, pulled off the remaining shoe, and threw it in the bushes. “They’re too big for you anyway. Lottie, you only had one beer! How can you be this drunk?”

Her finger roved through his hair; then she tried to put the other hand down his shirt.

“No, no, none of that! We’re going home!”

In the parking lot he heard from a distance, “Hey, there’s that Prince of Beer guy with that drunk girl!”

Shit! He fumbled at the passenger door.

“Let’s go ask him for an autograph!” a woman’s voice shrilled.

“Get in!” He dropped Lottie in the car like a couple of grocery bags, then huffed around, assed into the driver’s seat, and sped off. He thunked over a curb—Idiot!—then realized he hadn’t put his lights on. He thunked over another curb, then almost hit a corner mailbox searching for the headlights knob. This fuckin’ car! Finally he snapped them on and veered onto Penelope Street.

Thank God it’s not far…He could see the Gast House all alight at the top of the hill. Nice and slow, he thought, settling down. Just another quarter mile—

Suddenly Collier couldn’t see. His heart shouted in his chest when the wheel slipped, and he felt the vehicle go off the hardtop.

Fwap! Fwap! Fwap! Fwap!

He was mowing down bushes on the roadside. All he could see now were Lottie’s bare breasts in his face. She’d dropped her shoulder straps and was trying to straddle him in the driver’s seat—

“Lottie, for shit’s sake!”

One of her hands clamped his crotch and squeezed.

“You’re going to get us killed!” He shoved her back, and—

Thud!

She slid across the dash and fell into the passengerside foot well, flat on her back. Then—

No movement.

Collier had managed to stop the car a yard short of the largest oak tree in the front court. He backed up slowly, then realized this:

That’s the tree Harwood Gast hanged himself from…

He pulled his eyes off the sprawling tree, then idled to the parking lot.

No lights lit the half-filled lot; only moonlight traced into the car. Collier let his heart settle down again. In the moonlight, he found both of Lottie’s bare feet in his lap…

He put his hands on them, paused, then moved them off.

She wasn’t moving. Christ, with my luck she broke her neck when she fell! He leaned down and felt her throat. Thank God. There was a steady pulse.

Feeling weird, he looked closer at her, then gulped when he realized that one bare breast was exposed, its nipple dark and pointed like a Hershey’s Kiss. Man…

The toned legs seemed radiant in the moonlight. Then he looked at her face: serene and peaceful.

The silly ditz is out cold.

Then…

Would it be, like, sexual misconduct if I…

He couldn’t believe what he’d considered. I wanted to feel her breast…An UNCONSCIOUS girl’s breast…

He didn’t think about it, or at least tried not to, but then that other voice—the alter ego, the id—seemed to whisper, Go ahead. What’s the big deal?

His hand reached down without any guidance from his mind…

He pulled it back.

What a wuss! Go ahead! Cop a feel! Any REAL man would!

He ground his fists together.

Come on! She’ll never know!

It troubled Collier more than significantly: the amount of time it took to decide not to. I’m REALLY screwed up…

But then…something else occurred to him as the memory flashed: his keyhole this afternoon, and the immaculate, hairless pubis displayed in it, and the unique freckle.

It was probably Lottie, and…judging by her behavior tonight, I’d say there’s a 99 percent chance.

More curiosity, then.

He already knew that she wore no panties beneath the tight, diaphanous dress…

I’m just seeing if it was her, that’s all, he thought as if to offer an excuse.

He raised her motionless leg, angled it away…

The moonlight didn’t reach that low so, very briefly, he turned on the dome light—thought, Pervert!—and glanced down between her legs.

Wrong again.

There was quite a bit of pubic hair down there, a veritable pie wedge-shaped tuft of it.

He took a breath, clicked the light back off…and found himself shaking slightly.

The other voice again: Shit, she only weighs a hundred pounds. Take her in the woods and have a go. Who’s going to know?

Collier could imagine the headlines. TV BEER GURU RECEIVES TEN YEARS FOR DATE RAPE.

His mind swam. He was mortified that the idea had even occurred to him. Got to get her back in the house. Now.

Eventually he got her shoulder strap back up, hauled her out of the car, and was trudging toward the front steps.

Jesus…

After twenty paces, gravity turned this hundred-pound “pipe cleaner” into an armful of cinder blocks. Collier wasn’t in the best physical shape, and being drunk only compounded his effort. I wish I could just leave her on the damn steps and go to bed. He was tempted. But, no, he’d already been enough of a scumbag tonight.

He opened the front door—

Oops.

—with her head and muscled through the vestibule. A very agape Mrs. Butler sprang up from the desk and came briskly forward.

“Mrs. Butler, this isn’t what you think,” he started. “She—”

“Oh, that silly daughter’a mine,” snapped the now-familiar drawl. “She got drunk is what she did.”

“Yes, ma’am. And only on one beer.”

“Lottie! What am I gonna do with you!” she bellowed at the unconscious woman. “You’ve embarrassed Mr. Collier!”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Butler, it wasn’t much of a problem—”

The old woman plucked Lottie from Collier’s arms and threw her over her shoulder like she was a straw doll. Lottie’s bare bottom looked Collier right in the face, then was spun around.

“Please forgive this, Mr. Collier!”

“Really, it’s no big d—”

“I would just die if you went back to sunny California and told all your TV friends like Emeril and Savannah Sammy that folks in Gast ain’t nothin’ but a bunch’a drunks’n crackers.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Emeril.” He struggled for something to do or say, through some sudden obligation. I can’t very well let her old mother lug her back to her room. “Here, let me help you.”

“Wouldn’t think of it! You been inconvenienced enough! You can bet corn bread to gold doubloons that she’ll be punished rightly.”

“No, please, Mrs. Butler. She was just trying to have a good time and drank too much—”

“See you in the mornin’, and please sleep well!” The old woman was already hustling away, her own shapely backside shaking in a loose lavender dress. “And, again, I’m so sorry ’bout this!”

Mrs. Butler disappeared down a hall beside the desk.

What a night.

And it was finally officially over, he realized, when the lobby grandfather clock tolled midnight. He began to trudge up the steps, amused now by the previous debacle. Mrs. Butler’s upset had seemed a bit over the top. So what? Her daughter got drunk in front of a small-time TV star. Not that big a deal. But then he recalled Jiff’s little bit of interesting info earlier. The younger man had literally been trying to set Collier up with his mother.

The only one I wish I could be set up with is Dominique…

But how preposterous was that? Just because she didn’t have a ring didn’t mean she wasn’t married or involved, he knew. Brewers, just like cooks or masons, didn’t wear rings for obvious reasons. How could a girl that pretty and that on the ball NOT be taken?

And why worry about it anyway? His TV “stardom” was at an end, he was over-the-hill, and soured by L.A. and a catastrophe for a marriage. Collier knew he wasn’t exactly the Total Package.

Back in his room, he dropped his shirt on the floor, stepped out of his pants, and groaned into bed.

At least the bed wasn’t spinning, and when he burped he did so as the genuine connoisseur that he was. The burp was light and hoppy, and had good “nose.” It reminded him that he’d found what he’d been looking for right away: a preeminent American lager. So even with all of the day’s disasters and absurdities, it had been a terrific success…

And I got to meet Dominique…

He felt like his first grade-school crush. But it’s just lust. That other voice crept into his head.

No, it’s not!

Yes, it is. All she is to you is what you relegate all women as: a Lust Object, a dehumanized arrangement of sexual parts.

Bullshit! I really like her!

You don’t like anybody, you only “use” people for masturbatory head fodder. Just like the old lady, who’s nothing but an ass and a pair of tits for you to stare at. Just like Lottie, and that Wisconsin tramp you were about to screw. Good job, Collier. At least admit it. Dominique’s no different. You want to use her for a roll in the hay, and that’s perfectly fine. Why shouldn’t you? You’re a man, and men are supposed to do that.

Fuck you! Dominique’s nothing like that! Collier hurled back at his conscience. This is different!

He rolled over in bed, clenching the sheets.

Guilt flowed over him like a stinking fog. All humans were sexual animals, one side said, but there was always the other side, too.

Sexual animals domesticated by a progressive morality.

You either choose to be good or you choose to be bad. But then he regretted the fact when he considered some of his own thoughts today. Yes, the eyes of his lust had been using Mrs. Butler’s body for a scratching post all day, and even worse were his deeds in the car. As for the Wisconsin woman…

I came really close, he knew.

For each hour that he was here it almost seemed like his sex drive was doubling.

Just go to sleep…

He thought of Dominique’s lovely face and barleygrist tinged hands, hoping the image would lull him to slumber. The cross around her neck glimmered, a hypnotist’s tool.

Just…go…to sleep…

A noise jostled the encroaching REM waves. He sat up, aggravated.

Did I really hear something?

Then it resounded again.

Water.

Not water running from a tap but…a long splash.

Like someone dumping water out of a bucket…

Then he saw the dot.

What the hell is that?

There was a dot on the wall, like a dot of light, or—

A hole?

He squinted at the wall.

Don’t tell me there’s a hole in the wall…

But when he got up, he found this to indeed be the case.

There’s a light on in the next room, and there’s a hole in the wall, he knew now. The hole existed between the closet on one side and a waist-high vase cabinet with a marble top on the other. As Collier lowered himself to his knees he was vaguely reminded of this afternoon when he’d knelt similarly to look through the keyhole.

The next room is that bath closet, he thought he remembered correctly. And that’s exactly what Collier saw when he put his eye to the hole.

Soft yellow lamplight glowed over finished wood-slat walls. Directly in Collier’s view was something he first thought must be a seat, because he noticed the high, curved back swept down to a lower rim with half-circle cutouts. Through his beer daze, then, he recalled what Mrs. Butler had said of this room when he’d checked in.

It’s a tub for a hip bath.

He flinched at the sound again: gushing water.

I was right!

Through the hole he saw two hands bearing a bucket. The bucket was upended into the tub, then withdrawn. But…

Who was emptying the bucket?

He only caught the quickest glimpse, then…

Silence.

Next, he heard the slightest clattering, and a few footsteps. Then he saw a blur…There she is…

It was Mrs. Butler, or at least he thought so. He couldn’t see her face, of course—the peephole only afforded a close perimeter. But now a woman stood before the tub, her buttocks to Collier’s eye. A creped lavender dress jiggled as hands pushed it down by the waistband. Yes, it was definitely Mrs. Butler. I know that dynamite old butt anywhere… Collier’s heart stepped up at the acknowledgment of what was about to happen:

She’s going to strip and take a hip bath…and I get to watch.

He’d been lusting after her extraordinary body all day—now came the moment of truth.

He was looking at a pair of white cotton panties stretched out by the preeminent derriere. The view crawled up the lines of her back to her shoulders where it stopped. He could see the bra strap, too. Already, Collier’s loins were tingling.

Don’t get your hopes up, he reminded himself. She’s an old lady. Just because her body fills the dress right doesn’t mean it won’t be a wrinkled wreck once she’s nude…

The panties were pushed off and the bra removed…

And Mrs. Butler’s body was not a wrinkled wreck by any stretch of the imagination.

Mama mia…

Now the hole circumscribed an hourglass of plush soft-white flesh. Midsixties be damned, Collier’s eyeball was going dry staring at a rump, back, and shoulders that existed essentially without flaw.

Not a pock. Not a wrinkle. Not a mole, liver spot, pimple, nor blemish and not a single dimple of cellulite.

This old lady’s not just a brick shit-house—she’s the mother of ALL brick shit-houses…

Collier’s arousal was plain at once, even in spite of the influx of alcohol. It wasn’t just the primal sight of this sumptuous bare buttocks just a few feet from his eye, it was the psychological effect: the anticipation. If he thought this side was good viewing, he could scarcely imagine the other side, and he knew in just moments she would turn around to let him see it all. And there was something else, wasn’t there?

Collier knew—he felt absolutely 100 percent certain— that when she did indeed traverse her body, his eyes would be wide-open on a meticulously shaved pubis, which would hereby end the mystery of the Keyhole Flasher.

He felt his crotch without being conscious of it…

His eye went back to the peephole…

Mrs. Butler turned around at the exact moment. Here comes the bald beaver, Collier thought.

He froze.

Where he expected clean white skin and a pink cleft he saw instead a bounteous quantum of feminine thatch. Another wrong number…

At one point she appeared to lean backward—to grab something behind her?—which stretched the downy matt almost as if on cue. Collier didn’t see any gray hairs in the mound, but he knew it was her. Then Mrs. Butler lowered herself into the hip tub.

Holy smokes…

Above the neck, he could only see her chin and some untied gray hair touching her shoulders. The rest was a vantage shot of her pubis, stomach, and breasts. What she’d reached back for was obviously a piece of the Civil War-era soap called ash cake. It was a grayish color in hand but when she glided it over her wet skin, it sudsed faintly like normal bar soap.

A voyeur’s paradise now glowed back into Collier’s eye: Mrs. Butler’s hand soaping up her crotch, belly, and breasts.

Oh, man, this is better than my first Playboy when I was nine…

The image was so vivid, he thought of the most re—fined pornography. The light and her wet skin conspired to an image that seemed to just keep sharpening. And judging by the motions of her sudsy hand…

She was doing more than washing.

Only then was Collier even aware that he’d previously taken himself in hand. By then he couldn’t help it. He felt absurd, yet the idea of stopping was beyond consideration. He kept staring with one eye through the hole, intent on the potent image, yet another part of his consciousness realized the absolute necessity that he MUST NOT make a sound. Mrs. Butler’s slick torso wriggled in rhythmic waves. When her hips began to buck, her orgasm was apparent.

So was Collier’s.

He slammed his eyes shut and closed his teeth hard against his lip. The sensation sidled him over on the floor, and there he cringed.

Cheek to floor, he lay for many moments, eyes wide in the dark, heart racing down. Impulse urged him to get up and watch the last of Mrs. Butler’s private antics but he simply couldn’t move.

Paralyzed…

When he put his hand down to push himself up, it landed on a damp spot. Oh, sure, Collier, go ahead and jerk off on the rug. It was only handwoven in the 1850s and should probably be in the fucking Smithsonian.

When he got back to his knees, he looked in the peephole but found it dark. He fumbled to his feet, turned on the bed lamp, and took some tissues to feebly daub up what semen he could.

The residue of his sperm left damp marks that could’ve been a gorilla’s handprint. It’ll dry up, he hoped.

Then, for some reason, he looked back at the hole.

Questions occurred to him now. Like: Who drilled it?

Some kink who’d rented this room before me…

And now that he thought of it, the hole had obviously been drilled with some thought behind it. A perfect deadeye view of the hip tub, he reasoned. The hole had even been angled down, to maximize the tub’s position and ensure that the woman’s crotch, belly, and breasts all fit into the circumference. I guess you call that Pervert’s Craftsmanship.

He inadvertently touched the hole and found it splintery.

Hmm.

His ruminations started to tick, and he quickly redressed, left his room, and went to the bath closet’s door. He knew Mrs. Butler wasn’t in there anymore because he’d seen the light was off. The stair hall, both ways, stood empty. Collier entered the bath closet.

Warm air touched his face, and he smelled an expected soapy fragrance. His finger clicked the lights on.

The hip tub remained in place but had been emptied. The wall next to the window hosted a large sink and an old-fashioned wooden toilet seat with a chamber pot in a compartment beneath, the latter obviously for display only. There was also a large—and modern—janitorialtype sink.

On the other wall stood an identical vase cabinet, which seemed exactly opposite of the one in his room, and a yard to the left of that…

Collier leaned over and found the hole. He rubbed his finger against it and found it—

Smooth…

No splinters. I was right, he deduced. The hole was drilled on this side, not mine.

But what did it matter?

He squinted at his thoughts. A former guest realized that Mrs. Butler takes hip baths, so one day he came in here, drilled the hole for the perfect view, and just waited till she did it again. An unpleasing thought traced his imagination now: that Collier likely wasn’t the first man to masturbate while peeping through the hole.

He shrugged, switched off the light, and slipped back to his room. When he climbed into bed, a weirder notion nagged at him.

What…is it?

Something Jiff had said…

…whenever a single fella checks in that she’s got a twinkle for, she gives him room three. Your room.

Jiff had said that at the bar, hadn’t he? Embellishing the offbeat remark about Mrs. Butler having some sort of crush on Collier.

Yes. He was sure of it.

But he’d said something else, too.

It’s ’cos of the view. Bet she even told ya that, huh? That room three’s got the best view?

Collier couldn’t believe what he was considering. Room three’s got the best view, all right. The best view of Mrs. Butler’s bare boobs and butt!

But, no. That was ridiculous.

He couldn’t possibly suspect that it was Mrs. Butler herself who’d drilled that hole, could he?

He shook his head against the pillow, aggravated now. Eventually, he let it all go and fell into a deep slumber…

…and had this dream: